The Story
by netherfield
Summary: My post-modern take on the Season 4 finale title.


The Story. Rated: PG-13. My postmodern take on season finale Title 'Raincoats and Recipes'—refers to promos only. Disclaimer: I do not own these characters.  
  
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: Opening Night Reflection...  
  
It rained that night. The night the Inn opened. This wasn't really a tragedy, everyone was in a good mood for the party anyway—rain can kind of bring people together like that. Not as well as snow, of course, but nice anyway.  
  
And in the whole scheme of things the rain was sort of ironic, or funny, because of the whole condom thing (get it? Raincoat? Condom?—hee... Dirty!–all right, all right, it's a bit of a stretch.)  
  
And the good, good food had been so, well---good!  
  
Good? Not great?  
  
Okay, great!  
  
Great? Not wonderful?  
  
Okay, wonderful!  
  
Wonderful?—Not...  
  
Stop! I need to tell the story now.  
  
Okay. Just start at the beginning, Virginia Wolf.  
  
Sigh.  
  
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The Essay...  
  
My Mother, Myself  
by Rory Gilmore  
Self, Authenticity and an Interpersonal Relationship  
Prof. Ada Guber, Psych. 111  
May 5, 2004  
  
I have tried now and then, even at the young age of nineteen, to try to look at my mother and myself from the point of view of an outsider, or close friend even. That's a difficult thing to do. You see, you know yourself so well, and you know your mother as a mother, (though as you grow older, if you are lucky and not too self-absorbed, you start to glimpse how others view her as well.) This helps you. It helps you understand yourself better to know her as a woman, not just in her role of mother.  
  
But to try to focus the lens of the world upon yourself and your relationship with your mother is a Herculean task. I still can't really see what they see, or how they see us, but I can make guesses.  
  
To many we seem to have a 'wonderful' relationship born of a certain history. This history is not remarkable, many might find it common, or distasteful even. You see, my mother, a bright and promising student from an affluent background, got pregnant at sixteen. I won't bore you with the soap operatic details, but sum it up by saying that she raised me alone, away from her family (and without their help) in a small town, working at first as a maid, then slowly climbing her way up the ladder to running an Inn. In a few days, she will open her own Inn, a fulfilment of a long- sought dream, and I have to say I am pretty darn proud of her.  
  
So we became close as I grew up. 'Freakishly' close, even. She was young, we were mother and daughter, we were friends. She, like all parents, wanted to give me what she hadn't had as a child. This amounted to fun and unconditional love for her. So that's what we had. And it was great. It is great.  
  
That said, as I try to peer at us the way others might, I can see how some would admire this relationship. I can also see how some might find it co- dependent and suffocating.  
  
My mother is a vivacious, outgoing, social woman. She sees fun in the simplest things. Her happiness is contagious. When she walks into a room, every eye can't help but focus on her. She is also very beautiful and quick- witted. It's difficult for many to keep up with her.  
  
I am not any of those things. I am quiet, measured, and quick to get 'it', but rarely interested in tossing the first ball in verbal gamesmanship. And that's how I first knew that I wanted to a journalist.  
  
You see, I am the journalist type and my mom the type journalists, or any writers really, write about.  
  
That sounds odd. But I just want to make it clear that my mother did not smother me into being some kind of wallflower just because she sparkles.  
  
I know I don't sparkle. But that's fine with me because I glow.  
  
My mother and I understand that about each other. It's like that book, 'Like water For Chocolate,' we are so much more together, but important apart as well.  
  
Though, I do have to admit, being away from her this first year of college has not been easy.  
  
(I should address that, I know, but I want to talk first about how I came to the recognition that I should be a journalist. Am a journalist, in fact.)  
  
In addition to having been born with the right kind of personality for the job; In addition to having a supportive relationship with my mother; In addition to all this, I got to hear Bob Edwards speak one time.  
  
Bob Edwards has long been the news anchor for N.P.R. (which is as important to me as coffee.) My mother, upon recognizing my need for N.P.R. (National Public Radio) when I was eleven, went out an bought me a radio she couldn't really afford for me to keep in my room (it wasn't even my birthday) so I could listen to Bob and his stories 24/7.  
  
For my fifteenth birthday she took me to the local college to hear him speak (she made me promise that we'd go to Chuck E. Cheese afterwards---- she was always trying to counter-balance my serious side—I hate Chuck E. Cheese, but promised to go anyway because I'd do anything to hear Bob Edwards speak.)  
  
He was wonderful. First of all, his voice alone would turn any girl into a puddle of pudding, but oh, 'what' he said! He made a joke that true journalists are 'voyeurs' that they 'like to watch'. And that clicked with me in such a specific way. (My mom liked it too because it was kind of a dirty comment and therefore made her laugh.)  
  
He went on talking about how the glory of being a journalist was to be invisible in way, because then all the stories come to you in authentic ways. And I have to say to you now that I love stories. I live for stories. Stories are worth it all to me.  
  
So I had this incredible epiphany (which I'd really known all along, which is what an epiphany is, I suppose—the only added feature being the recognition of what you know) right there in a lecture hall on my fifteenth birthday.  
  
And we sat there quietly after everyone had left, my mother and I, truly knowing something about me, about Rory Gilmore, for the first time. Although we had known it all along. I'll never forget how that felt: It was like finding my own recipe.  
  
And so she said, "You don't want to go to Chuck E. Cheese, do you?"  
  
"Nope," I said.  
  
"Let's go to Luke's and figure out your career," she said.  
  
(Luke's is a diner in our little town with great food and coffee.)  
  
"Okay," I said, loving her so much. So that was my mother's real gift to me that night: Authenticity: A recognition of myself. Which sounds a little hokey, but there it is anyway.  
  
I am quiet and measured and a journalist. I love 'the story'. And I love my histrionic mother who will squirt cheese whiz at me (just to keep me real,) and then understand (and love back) that I don't sparkle.  
  
We both know; I glow.  
  
Glowing is good. Glowing draws the good stories to you like proverbial moths to a flame.  
  
Just look at the great story I got out of me and my mom.  
  
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: Sunday night after the movie...  
  
"Lorelai, I don't know what to say..."said Luke as he folded the just-read essay and handed it back to her. Even in the darkened, closed diner, she thought she could see a little wet reflection in his eyes.  
  
"I don't either, Luke," Lorelai responded, taking a sip from her mug.  
  
They were quiet together a moment then.  
  
Luke looked at her across the table, not quite believing the context of the moment, but indescribably happy about it.  
  
"That's quite a thing to read on Mother's Day...."  
  
"Yeah," smiled Lorelai, looking out the window into the darkened square. He saw a suspicious shine in her eyes too.  
  
"Where is Rory tonight?" he asked.  
  
"At Lane's."  
  
"I forgot when I asked you out that it would be Mother's Day. I hope that didn't..."  
  
"No, Luke, it's fine, she is so excited that I'm going out with you...."  
  
"She is?"  
  
"Yep."  
  
They smiled at one another and took sips from their respective mugs.  
  
"So, Luke, did you hate the movie too much?"  
  
"No, it was fine..."  
  
"Ummhmm... I think you're a pretty good sport."  
  
"Well, you like movies..." he reflected.  
  
"Yeah, I do," she smiled.  
  
"And, it was much more about being with you than seeing the movie. I think I watched you more, anyway..."  
  
"Oh, Luke..."  
  
"Look, about the other night at the Inn, I wasn't trying to scare you..."  
  
"I know, you were just making your intentions... clearer..."  
  
"I thought you'd understood..."  
  
"I hadn't... really... Thick as cheese..." she tapped her head, "And it's not that I haven't thought about it... I have. I just... I don't want to lose... us..."  
  
"We don't have to..." he said softly, reaching across the table for her hand.  
  
"Good," she sighed, relieved, "Just... one step at a time, okay?"  
  
"Yes, one step at a time," he smiled at her.  
  
They sat in the quiet together then.  
  
"Luke, what happened? I mean what changed for you? Why me? and why now?" she finally asked.  
  
"Let's just say that apparently I had to live forty years to realize that you are everything I want," he said, looking into her eyes.  
  
"Oh, wow..." Lorelai caught her breath.  
  
"No pressure, though," he added, and they both laughed.  
  
"Well, I must say the kissing is a definitely a big draw," she returned playfully.  
  
"Really?" he asked.  
  
"Yep, we did that pretty well, I think," she affirmed, and as an after thought, "Luke, have we screwed up? Or have we just been incredibly stupid for years? Because..."  
  
"Shh..." he comforted, "It doesn't matter. Truly, it doesn't. We can start now."  
  
"The timing sucks..."  
  
"I don't care," he told her.  
  
"Me either," she said and leaned in to add one more hand to their already- caressing-hand-pile on the table.  
  
"It's like finally hitting the ball the right way," began Luke by way of explanation, "—it makes this sound, and you just know it's gonna fly...or finding a formula, the right recipe... I just want the chance to make it work... I'm not..." he broke off, looking away.  
  
"Scared any more?" tried Lorelai with a smile.  
  
"I wasn't scared," scoffed Luke.  
  
"Okay."  
  
"I was terrified."  
  
They smiled at this.  
  
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On thinking about the essay and confessions...  
  
It's not like she isn't a Mother, too. Because she is. She let me have it with both barrels the other night when it rained.  
  
You mean after the Inn's opening?  
  
Yeah, I was tired of the aloneness, you know? And everyone talking about my aloneness. I don't know why because I actually like being alone most of the time. And I really hate bars.  
  
I hear you on that one. They are smokey.  
  
Among other things.  
  
So I let it get out of hand with one of my ex-boyfriends. Apparently my brain temporarily de-railed.  
  
Ah, youth...  
  
Whatever. It's just my other ex really scared me that night at school.  
  
How many exes do you have?  
  
I mean he just showed up out of the blue and talked me against a wall...  
  
Did he hurt you?  
  
No, but he wanted me to go away with him... Just like that! I mean, was he on drugs? I don't see him for months and then—'Go away with me?!'  
  
You don't know what was going on with him.  
  
No, I don't.  
  
So, your mother got angry with you about the other guy?  
  
Yeah, she caught me making out with my old boyfriend and but for the lack of condoms and her interruption it might have turned into...  
  
Okay, got it.  
  
But, it didn't....Um, did I mention he was married now?  
  
What?!  
  
Yeah, hence my mother going ballistic in Grand Old Fashioned Mother Style. I mean when the man she wanted for years married some one else, she stayed away, you know? She stayed his 'friend'. She pushed her barely-acknowledged feelings away. She set the right example, whether or not she knew it... I just wasn't thinking about much that night, other than his unhappiness with his marriage, and my aloneness, and....  
  
Things happened?  
  
Yeah, not a very new story, is it?  
  
Nope.  
  
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The morning of the Inn's opening, but before the rain...  
  
"Ooo! Hey, Sweetie! Come on in and hug me—I haven't seen you in so long."  
  
Rory crossed into the kitchen to hug Sookie and sit down at the table.  
  
"Where's Little Davey?" she asked as she snagged a fresh cooling cookie from a plate, "Oh, Sookie, these Snickerdoodles are from heaven... no, better than heaven....Something like Library-heaven!"  
  
Sookie giggled at this, "Thanks, hun," she poured them each a cup of coffee and sat down at the table as well, "Davey's having a stroll with Tobin right now. Hey, where's your mom?"  
  
"Talking to Luke," said Rory, implication in her eyes.  
  
"Is he here?" asked Sookie, trying to crane her neck around Rory to peer down the hall.  
  
"Yep, and he brought her flowers," added Rory conspiratorially.  
  
"About time!" Sookie crowed and clapped at once.  
  
"Tell me about it," nodded Rory as she took another cookie.  
  
"Oh, it was all over town about them at Luke's sister's wedding..."  
  
"Oh? Do tell..." wheedled Rory.  
  
"They danced!"  
  
"She didn't tell me that! They danced? With each other?" Rory asked incredulously.  
  
"I know! I know! Luke dancing! How cute is that?"  
  
"Pretty damn cute."  
  
"Rory, they're just meant to be... I have a good feeling about this," said Sookie solemnly.  
  
"Well, I'll tell you a secret, Sookie; I've always wanted it... them, I mean."  
  
"Yeah, me too. What took them so long? I wonder..." "Fear and denial," answered Rory.  
  
"Ooo! Deep!" said Sookie.  
  
:::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::::::::::::::: Three months later....  
  
So, Jess sent me a letter from New York...  
  
Oh, yeah? What'd he say?  
  
That he was sorry... that he didn't mean to scare me that night.  
  
Good. What did you do?  
  
Well, my Grandma and Grandpa got me a new computer...  
  
Yeah...  
  
So, I sent him my old one and told him to get off his ass and write a book already.  
  
Ummhmm; there are pretty much three choices for his type...  
  
There are?  
  
Yeah, dramatic death while young...  
  
Yikes.  
  
Yeah, doesn't happen that often though, but very melodramatic when it does.  
  
Okay, good, what are the other choices?  
  
He comes back, gets the girl, and they live happily ever after...  
  
Not going to happen if I'm the girl in this scenario.  
  
You are wise beyond your years. And, third: Finally matures (well, a little); screws all women he meets; never commits; then writes a bitter, angst-ridden book that will still make him attractive to women even when his hair is gone.  
  
I think we have a winner there, ladies and gentlemen.  
  
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Friday night dinner... the day after the Inn's opening...  
  
Emily fretted with the centerpiece: She shouldn't have ordered the tulips, they never hold up the way one would like. But the large lilies, what are they called? ---Star? They will look so pedestrian, and Mr. Gonzales had such poor offerings this week. It's spring, for heaven's sake! The world should be overflowing with flowers...  
  
She sighed then. She always wanted things to be just so when her girls came, and tonight... well, tonight she needed to speak to them. They probably had some inkling, they weren't without intuition, after all, and Lorelai had been so slyly questioning at the Inn's opening last night, in that completely un-subtle way she has.  
  
Emily walked into the kitchen then to make sure Kiki put extra ganache over the cake. Her girls loved chocolate cake...  
  
The Grandfather struck seven just then meaning they'd be here soon. Why did she feel so nervous?  
  
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Sunday night again, after the movie...  
  
"I can understand that terror," she said, serious now.  
  
He nodded.  
  
"This is scary... Changing things..."  
  
"Not this, not any more, not with you..." he said.  
  
"Me? Are you sure?" she asked again.  
  
"Is there something wrong with you?" he smiled.  
  
"Oh, honey, don't get me started..." she laughed, "The thing is, you already know those things..."  
  
"Don't know what you're talking about..." he ducked his head.  
  
"Oh no, you're not doing that... You know everything about me... Every single thing... and most drive you crazy," she said with certainty.  
  
"But, knowing things... the way little things fascinate you, the way you ... I don't know, pull me in... Your independence. Rory. How I feel when you are around...And..." he looked up at her then.  
  
"And what, Luke?" she asked, hardly breathing.  
  
"And your heart..." he said, and looked away.  
  
"My heart? Oh, God, Luke...," and with that Lorelai got up and walked around the table and sat next to him, taking his face in her hands, "Look at me, Luke." He complied. "Don't you know that I don't deserve this... you... us..."  
  
"I don't know anything like that," he told her directly.  
  
"So, you're glutton for punishment then?" she smiled  
  
"Maybe," he smiled in return. "But I don't know where this 'undeserving' crap comes from... your family, I guess, but you need to know that is not the truth."  
  
"Part of me knows it," she whispered, still holding his face, while noticing that his hands were now on her shoulders. She pulled him closer then and kissed him gently, repeatedly, over his mouth and cheeks and eyes.  
  
And when they had stopped and were only breathing, foreheads resting against one another, Luke smiled and said, "It also doesn't hurt that you have an amazing ass."  
  
Lorelai laughed so hard she almost fell out of her chair.  
  
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Friday night dinner again... the night after the Inn's opening.  
  
"Mom, I'm trying really hard to understand," said Lorelai, feeling a lump the size of Pittsburgh in her throat.  
  
"Well, Lorelai, I don't know how to make things clearer to you. Your father and I are taking a break." responded Emily, with a gulp of her own.  
  
"Oh, Grandma, I'm sorry you've had this pain... I wish we had known," said Rory.  
  
"Thank you, Rory. Well, I needed to think things out on my own for awhile. I may finally be understanding your mother's reticence a little," Emily eyed her daughter with a smile.  
  
"Oh, Mom..." Lorelai didn't really know what to say.  
  
"It's good to think things out, Grandma, but you need to know that we want to support you... We love you..."  
  
"Oh, Rory..." Emily couldn't bring the words forth. She paused a moment before continuing, "Lorelai, you have done a wonderful job with this girl... this... young woman."  
  
"Thank you, Mom," said Lorelai, deeply touched. And she thought a moment before adding, "Now, listen, ladies, we all have one another... So we each need to grow up a bit and remember that we are on each other's side. We need to tell each other things. We need to try harder."  
  
"I'll drink to that!" said Rory, eyes aglow.  
  
"So, are you dating anyone, Lorelai?" asked Emily, seizing her moment.  
  
Lorelai groaned. Rory laughed, "You brought that on yourself, Mom!"  
  
"Lorelai? I'm waiting for an answer!" said Emily eagerly.  
  
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Six weeks after the movie date...  
  
Lorelai heard the front doorbell ring. Why is that thing so loud? She almost called to Rory but remembered then that it was her internship day at the newspaper. Crap: The bell again. She rolled over and looked at the clock: Five a.m.? Five-Frickin-A.M.?! Lorelai tossed the quilt back angrily, the time no longer mattered because the ringer of the bell was about to die a painful death (not so slow though, because she really wanted to get back to bed, and there was no coffee in the house.)  
  
She was downstairs now. She angrily jerked the door open to find a cup of coffee on the doormat and Luke behind it at the foot of the porch stairs beyond on the path.  
  
"Thought I better stay out of the line of fire until you saw the coffee," he said when she was finally able to get enough hair out of her eyes to glare at him.  
  
"At this hour, there better be a shot of 'Old Turkey' in it," she responded as she bent to retrieve the cup and drink deeply.  
  
Luke watched. "Jeez, Lorelai, do you always answer the door dressed like that?" he swallowed as subtly as possible.  
  
Lorelai looked down at her short cotton nightdress, "I only wear this on warm nights... Why?" She looked up at his flushed face and smiled, "Ha! Serves you right for waking me up!"  
  
Luke blushed and looked away.  
  
"It's just that you're making this hard..." he said and winced immediately, "Don't say it, I beg you!"  
  
Lorelai smiled, "I don't know what you're talking about... I think you better come in though, before Babette gets the wrong idea."  
  
Luke followed her through to the kitchen where they sat down at her table.  
  
"Now," she asked, "has something happened?"  
  
"No... I've just been up most of the night... thinking..." he admitted.  
  
"Are you okay?" she reached to hold his hand in concern.  
  
"It's just.. I want to move forward... with us, I mean... I don't want to pressure you, in any way...I've never felt this way before...I don't know what's going on with me," he ran his hand over his hair.  
  
Lorelai smiled, "Luke..."  
  
"Will you come away with me this weekend?" he asked her directly.  
  
"What?" laughed Lorelai.  
  
"To my cabin... I want to show it to you... I want you to see me there... I want to see you there..."  
  
"This weekend?" Lorelai asked, "Seriously?"  
  
"Right now!" smiled Luke, scooping up both her hands.  
  
"What about the diner?"  
  
"Taken care of."  
  
"Well, I guess I could call Michel... We don't have any big groups this weekend... And Rory will be sleeping in Hartford again tonight, which might buy me out of dinner..."  
  
"I don't want to assume anything," began Luke, "But I've been thinking about it for awhile now, and so this morning I just waited until I could wake you at a decent hour and ask you..."  
  
Lorelai cocked her brow at that.  
  
"Okay," he smiled and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, "decent hour is a relative term, I'll grant you that. So, what do you say? I have the truck packed up. It takes about three hours to get there... We could eat lunch there, and swim... and I know you probably don't want to fish...but I thought..."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I said, Okay," smiled Lorelai.  
  
"Are you sure?" asked Luke, leaning in.  
  
"Aha! I knew Impulsive Luke had a chink in his armor! Really Luke, it sounds wonderful."  
  
Luke sighed his relief.  
  
"But I think we need to have a talk first," she said.  
  
"What about?"  
  
"Birth control," she stated.  
  
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One year later...  
  
Dear Rory,  
  
I have to say I'm finally getting it now, and though I was pretty upset with your decision when I left, I know now that it was the right one. Lindsay's and my divorce is final now. Enough said on that.  
  
So here I am learning how to make water potable. It looks like they will send me to either Nicaragua or Botswana. You were totally right about evil baby formula makers: Apparently they try to convince third world mothers that formula is better than breast milk (which is advertising crap that doctors buy into) and give the women free formula, just until their milk dries up and then, bam! Make them buy it (which they can't afford) and, oh by the way, did I mention that they don't have potable water? So do you want to give a baby formula made with diseased water? Didn't think so. It's a fucking recipe for poison.  
  
Apparently they do the same thing to American mothers, though the water is still potable. In some of the villages there aren't any women who know how left to teach the younger ones how to breast feed. I get so angry sometimes.  
  
Sorry about the rant, but you are the only one I can write this to who would really understand. My parents are all proud that I joined the Peace Corps, but they don't want to know too much about the details of my work (they're okay with me digging clean water wells but completely freaked on the breast feeding issue.) Promise me that when you win the Pulitzer or Nobel or something that you'll do something to help change the world. Something big. (Oh, and make sure your mom nurses the new baby when it arrives—just give Luke the pamphlet I'm sending, he'll make sure it happens.)  
  
The training has been amazing. It's like I finally woke up or something and found something real to do with my life. Funny how I always thought you'd travel the world and send me the letters from exotic places... but life's weird, I guess. And really not fair for a lot of sick babies.  
  
Promise too that you'll write your old friend who will be missing Stars Hollow a lot and living for letters. I just wanted you to know that I'm okay, and that I understand and, that you were right.  
  
So bye for now, knock Yale out, and be happy.  
  
Love, Dean  
  
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Two weeks after the Inn's opening...  
  
"Lorelai, pick up, it's your mother... Lorelai, this is important, pick up the phone... I have news...and I've already left two messages on your cell phone.... You better really not be there, young lady... Lorelai?... I do not want to leave this on an answering machine... Lorelai, your father and I met for lunch today and we've decided to..."—beeeeeeeeep...  
  
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Thinking about it....  
  
It's just been building, I suppose. It's not just the former fiancé: But forty years of lunches! I mean, I ask you... how would you have felt? It's simply that there we were. We were supposed to be ready... to be together. Travel maybe. I don't know... that part was still a bit nebulous. That's what retirement should be, the re-finding of each other, when you know more, when you are more because of the life you have lived. But I looked up and there he was, with just his work. And there I was, just the soda in his scotch. Just the soda, not even the scotch! The scotch being his work. HIS work, goddamnit, HIS... And I realized I didn't want to be just soda. Not anymore. So I left. And I guess he's doing just fine on straight scotch and I don't care anymore. I really don't. Because the important thing is to just not be soda any more, because there is only so much life left.  
  
And, God help me, but I'm starting to sound like Lorelai!  
  
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Six weeks after the movie date, four hours since her house....  
  
He watched her towel her hair in front of the fireplace, then pause to sip coffee just poured from the thermos, then return to the towel.  
  
She was before him in one of his flannel shirts and a pair of his sweat pants, drinking coffee in front of his fireplace... Jeez, he was choking up a little...  
  
"Oh, hey," she smiled at him, "How'd it go?"  
  
"I can't get the damn generator to start," he admitted.  
  
"That's okay, the fire and the lantern are nice. Come sit down. Or better yet, come dry my hair for me."  
  
He walked over, knelt behind her and took over rubbing her hair.  
  
"Mmm, that feels good..." she sighed.  
  
"Lorelai, I'm sorry, I should have checked the weather, or at least brought raincoats... I promised you swimming and..."  
  
"Luke," she said turning to look him in the eye...  
  
"What?"  
  
"You are ruining every girl's romantic fantasy, so shut up..." She laughed then at the confusion on his face, "Do you think I came here with you to swim and fish? No, I did not... and the lack of electricity, and the storm, and lantern light, and fire... Well, these things only improve the atmosphere, do you understand?"  
  
"God, I love you," he let out.  
  
Lorelai caught her breath and turned to kneel facing him, "You see, that's how you make a moment like this perfect," she said.  
  
"Hmm...Now a guy's idea of perfection runs to fewer clothes," he smiled. "Did I mention that I love you too?" she laughed again as she brought his hands up to the buttons of her shirt, "Now, if you tell me that you can make coffee over an open fire, I will be your love slave for days..."  
  
"Wow, you are romantic," he deadpanned.  
  
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Reflecting again...  
  
In a cabin in the rain, are you kidding?  
  
Nope.  
  
Wow.  
  
Yeah.  
  
So then what?  
  
That's it.  
  
That's it?  
  
For now.  
  
But where's the beginning, middle and end?  
  
What, you think this is like some cake recipe you follow to get happily ever after?  
  
Well, that's the general idea... It's why I stuck around, anyway.  
  
Sorry to disappoint then.  
  
You lured me in under false pretenses!  
  
Ha!  
  
Okay, so I totally knew. And I'm glad, so there. 'Cause the truth is, I didn't really want it to end.  
  
Of course, you didn't. Now that wasn't so hard to admit, now was it?  
  
No, I guess it wasn't.


End file.
